Hatteress

Oh, Boy.

howlnatural:

His breathing is so loud it drowns out the thump of bass from the floor below.

Stiles can’t— It’s been fucking months. Months of So, Derek… we’re in the same lab group, huh? And: hey, if you’re interested, I’ve got a bunch of  resources on Schwartz’ field work I could go over with you, in my dorm room, where my roommate is definitely out of state for the weekend. Not to mention: soooo Derek I was thinking, uh I don’t really fully understand what Professor Fallon was getting at in the last seminar, think you could shed some light on it for me? Over coffee?

Derek Hale is the most brain-stewingly hot science nerd Stiles has laid eyes on in his entire nineteen years of existence. And he’s met a lot. A lot. Even Jenna Montgomery from space camp in eighth grade, who was the owner of the first boob Stiles ever touched has been eclipsed by Derek No You Can’t Try On My Glasses Hale. Derek I Stroke My Stubble When I’m Doing Complicated Calculations Hale disagrees with Stiles on pretty much every theoretical debate opened to the floor, develops a stutter when he’s astounded by someone’s perceived stupidity and remembers your pizza topping combination despite hearing it only once when ordering in for group study sessions. Stiles didn’t stand a chance.

Derek is also the most oblivious.

Did he mention months? Stiles has never been commended on his subtlety. His dad joked once that there would never come a time when he’d get the wrong birthday gift, since he all but published a coupon in the local paper for whatever it was. So Stiles knew it wasn’t something lacking on his end. However, Derek I Must Not Have Been This Hot In High School Hale had innocently rebuked every single one of Stiles’ come-ons with replies like yes I know I was there when they called out our group members and I have the internet and library access too, Stiles and Lydia said I could read her notes -you can have them after I guess.

Honestly.

So. Stiles had resorted to doing things the old fashioned way: keg party and Usher.

Hey, it worked.

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llassah asks:

Derek Hale has a calming effect on babies, and can stop them crying just by looking at them. Babies always stare at him wherever he goes. Sometimes he goes into coffee shops because he kind of likes the wave of silent fascinated babies that follow him as he orders his guilty pleasure coffee with four different syrups in it. If a baby gets near enough, they basically want to be as close to him as possible. He has no idea why.

llassah:

llassah:

llassah:

drunktuesdaze:

Did you see that video of that baby who stopped crying whenever her parents played Beyonce?  I’m pmuch falling into spasms of lols picturing this being the case except Derek is every baby’s Beyonce.

Like, please imagine a situation where Scott’s baby is crying, like NORMAL CRYING, not that anything’s wrong, but it’s just kind of harder to deal with than Scott thought because of enhanced hearing.  He can’t really tune her out because hello, goes against every instinct, but also she’s not crying because anything’s wrong.  She’s just disgruntled about everything, but especially being put down.

Except Derek walks into a room, and her eyes snap to him and immediately calms down.  She super doesn’t care about being put down in her little chair as long as she’s facing Derek, and she just quietly stares at him.

CAN YOU EVEN IMAGINE THIS.  STILL LAUGHING.  STILES RECORDS DEREK ONE AFTERNOON FOR LIKE THREE HOURS.  DEREK ISN’T EVEN DOING ANYTHING, IS JUST COOKING AND WASHING DISHES AND SHIT BUT ALL SCOTT HAS TO DO IS PUT IT ON TV AND THE KID STOPS FUSSING AND STARES INTENTLY.

DEREK HALE INADVERTENTLY RUNNING AN INFANT DAYCARE DESPITE HAVING NO QUALIFICATIONS WHATSOEVER JUST CAUSE BABIES LIKE HIM.   DEREK GETTING A JOB IN THE NICU BECAUSE EVEN THOUGH THOSE BABIES ARE TOO LITTLE AND SICK TO FOCUS ON HIM, THEY’RE QUIETER AND SEEM TO THRIVE JUST A LITTLE BETTER WHEN HE’S IN THE ROOM.  HE JUST BRINGS A BOOK AND SITS IN THE ROCKING CHAIR. EVERY SO OFTEN HE GETS UP AND MAKES ROUNDS, SAYING A GRUFF HELLO TO EACH BABY.

DEREK HALE: EXACTLY HOW HE IS IN CANON EXCEPT SOMEHOW SENDING OUT POSITIVE VIBES TO ALL BABIES.

BUT WE DON’T KNOW THAT HE ISN’T LIKE A BABY MESMERIZER. WE JUST DON’T KNOW. UNTIL I AM SHOWN A BABY THAT STILL CRIES WHEN IT SEES DEREK THIS IS CANON. JUST LIKE THE SHERIFF’S FIRST NAME IS SHERIFF, SCOTT’S DAD’S FIRST NAME IS AGENT AND IT’S ALL A GIANT BAG OF NOMINATIVE DETERMINISM.

"HELLO BABY," DEREK SAYS QUIETLY AS STILES BOGGLES. THE BABY JUST STARES UP AT HIM, EVEN THOUGH DEREK HAS, LIKE, NO BABY TALK AT ALL. STILES CAME IN TO DEREK DESCRIBING THE FUCKING WEATHER TO ONE OF THE KIDS, AND YET THEY STILL COO, AND STARE, AND FIND HIS PRESENCE BIZARRELY COMFORTING. DEREK HALE KNOWS NOTHING ABOUT BABIES. STILES HAS TURNED INTO HIS FREAKING PA OR SOMETHING, BECAUSE HE’S THE ONE GOOGLING WHETHER IT’S OKAY TO FEED THEM STEAK, AND HOW TO PREVENT DIAPER RASH WHILE DEREK JUST EXISTS AROUND THEM AND OCCASIONALLY TELLS THEM INCREDIBLY OBVIOUS THINGS. “HELLO, YOU’RE SMALL,” DEREK SAYS SOLEMNLY TO ONE BABY, BENDING DOWN TO RUN A FINGER ALONG THE ARCH OF HIS FOOT. THE BABY LOOKS AT HIM LIKE HE’S JUST EXPLAINED STRING THEORY USING BELL PEPPERS.

"YOU’D BE NOTHING WITHOUT ME," STILES HISSES. "AND YEAH, THAT SOFT SPOT ON THEIR HEADS IS MEANT TO BE THERE."

DEREK SITS BACK DOWN AND STARTS WHITTLING AGAIN. THE BABIES LIE IN A CIRCLE SO THEY CAN ALL SEE HIM, AND STARE, TRANSFIXED.

omega werewolf babies.

Derek gets a reputation eventually. He has a youtube channel which is him reading instruction manuals out loud, sat in a rocking chair in front of a fire, which has had over a million hits. He’s pretty bemused by the whole thing. Then the Werewolf social services call him, and he’s a little twitchy at first because he thinks he got Scott to cosign Isaac’s college applications but he’s not completely sure, but it turns out it’s not because he’s gotten tangled up in werewolf bureaucracy again. It’s because there’s a baby born wolf who’s lost its pack, and they don’t know what to do. They’ve tried everything, and they’ve got five of their best case workers on it, but the cub won’t stop crying, and it’s getting closer to the full moon and it’s getting literally painful to be in hearing range of it.

Derek’s saying yes before he’s really thought about it, then sits down and stares at the table for a few minutes. The first few months after the fire, he and Laura were shunned by other werewolves. Their grief, the taboo of being born wolves without a family, Derek’s guilt and confusion— it was something that carried a scent and sound that made everybody edgy. For a cub to be going through that loss without an anchor is unthinkable. He’s still sitting there when Scott and Stiles come in, still having their eternal fire hydrant on ice skates debate (Stiles is for, Scott against). They’re at his side immediately, their hands on each of his shoulders.

"There’s— there’s a cub. In Oregon," he says, and they both immediately go into planning mode, and before he knows it they’re bundled into Stiles’s jeep, Stiles is trying to persuade Scott that the whole of Tusk is good road trip music and he’s not sure how he thought he was going to get to the cub but this is a better way.

They get there crumpled and tired, smelling of Stiles’s jeep and motel beds. Scott’s on edge as soon as they get in hearing range. Stiles picks up on their uneasiness, does all the talking as they get closer and closer to the desolate, exhausted sounding cries. Scott and Stiles wait in the corridor as the caseworker opens the door, shows him in, her eyes glowing yellow in her distress , nails making gouges in the doorframe.

He nods to her, closes the door behind him and looks at the cub. Her name’s Emma, and she doesn’t have a pack any more. She smells like grief and everything that’s wrong with the world, and he tastes ash at the back of his throat. She hasn’t seen him yet, changing forms as she thrashes on the mattress, leaving tears in the fabric, clouds of stuffing and feathers around her. “I, uh, I like your dress,” he says quietly. It used to have sunflowers on it, he thinks. He can see patches of bright, bright yellow. He comes to the edge of the mattress, sits down, taking deep breaths to keep himself under control. It’s unbearable. “I like yellow. It’s a good color. People— happy people wear it.”

She stills a little, the spaces between her form changes getting longer. “And your eyes go yellow too, when you get your little fangs and your claws. Maybe your mom wanted to match your dress to your eyes, huh?” It gets a little easier to breathe as the pitch of her cries becomes less urgent. He keeps talking to her, stretches his legs out on the mattress, his back to the wall. He doesn’t touch her yet, though, just lets her get used to his scent, the sounds he makes. When she’s quietened down to making hiccoughing sounds, eyes flashing as her body spasms, he puts his hand out and puts it on her foot.

"Hey you," he says, and can’t help smiling when she goes limp and stares at him with rapt, trusting eyes. It feels a little like he’s come through a storm. He can breathe again, without the crushing bands around his chest, his head. He brushes her hair back from her sweaty forehead, tickles her gums where her fangs drop, like his mom used to. "Stiles, Scott. She needs feeding and bathing, new clothes. Come in when you have them, but come in quietly, you hear?"

"Sure thing, buddy," Scott says, starts charming the caseworkers. He doesn’t want too many strange people in here yet. He picks her up, supporting her head, rests her on his crooked-up thighs and just looks at her. She’s filthy, a little dehydrated, and has no control yet. He’s not sure what the werewolf family services will do with her. He smiles as she grabs a handful of his sweater in her hand, starts mouthing at the fabric.

"You’ll be okay. Good cub," and yes, his conversation could do with some work, but she’s a baby. All he needs to do, really, is be in the same room. He’s already trying to work out if being terrible at paperwork is going to count against him in the adoption process. He can always nominate Scott and Stiles as responsible co-parents. Or something.

Two days later, they’re in an office. Scott and Stiles are sitting either side of him, and he feels a little bit like he’s walked into a double act. Three out of the five caseworkers are actually pinching the bridges of their noses. The other two have audibly sighed three times. He’s enjoying it, in a horrified sort of way. “Mr Hale, while we understand that the…situation in Beacon Hills has stabilized now, there is the matter of your personal life. There has been a certain pattern in your choice of partner,” and the woman breaks off there, all delicate pauses and inferences. Stiles leans forwards, a shit-eating grin on his face.

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bleep0bleep asks:

OKAY BUT THE SHERIFF GOING "NICE JOB SON, YOU SHOULD APPLY FOR THE NEW JOB OPENING, I COULD USE A DEPUTY WHO KNOWS HOW TO KEEP HIS HEAD ON HIS SHOULDER"

bleep0bleep:

howlnatural:

ok but if this happened you guys wouldnt get any more fic because I would be dead

Derek in uniform. posing so his gun is noticeable

giving soulful looks to troubled teens on the wrong side of the tracks

drinking coffee because cops evidently like that - HE IS MAINTAINING A FACADE OKAY

leaning on things

crotch bulge

please help

The first time Derek puts on the new uniform, he can’t help but grin proudly at himself in the mirror. It’s a little snug, but he can probably get a better fitting one later when Kelsey gets back from vacation. He adjusts the belt on his hip, taking a deep breath. This is it, Hale, you’ve got a respectable job now, things are definitely looking up, Derek thinks. 

He walks into the station and everyone greets him warmly. The Sheriff walks past his desk, dropping a folder onto it and claps a hand on his shoulder. “Good to have you here, son,” he says, “I know you’ll do me proud,” and Derek inwardly has to stop himself from beaming happily like a puppy in front of all the fools in the drunk tank. 

It’s a pretty good first day, Derek thinks, and he and the Sheriff actually make some headway on the serial killer (not actually supernatural) case that they’re working on. Derek sips the awful coffee from the breakroom, nodding to himself while he leans against the wall, adopting what he thinks is a stoic cop stance. It seems to be working. 

At about four p.m. the doors open and Stiles bursts into the station. “Guess who’s back from their first quarter of college without gaining the freshman fifteen!” Stiles announces giddily, and Derek listens with amusement to Stiles bantering with his dad about food and such.

The conversation ends with “I’ll see you at home, Stiles, I need to focus on this case right now, why don’t you go bother my new deputy?” 

And Stiles leaves the office, grumbling under his breath about Scott being busy and what else is he supposed to do, when he turns around and sees Derek leaning against the doorjamb of the breakroom, drinking his coffee quietly.

Stiles blinks, and his eyes travel the length of Derek’s body. “Oh,” he says in a small voice. “Hi, Derek,” Stiles says, and Derek can see the faint blush starting to appear high on his cheeks.

Okay, so maybe Derek’s going to keep the tight uniform.  

howlnatural:

"It’s made of wax."
Scott makes a face like someone just told him the truth about Santa Claus - Stiles would know, since he accidentally stole that piece of Scott’s childhood and has had to endure the heartbreaking, wistful sighs every Christmas Eve since. How had anyone made it to age thirteen in Beacon Hills, Nemeton Weirdness Central, without finding out that Jolly Old St Nick was actually a frost demon who fed on the souls of children by luring them in with toys before his permanent imprisonment centuries back? Stiles’ attic was haunted by a sea captain thanks to the re-used beams in the roof, and they’d literally had to evict a vengeful family of tree sprites out of their old hangout spot last month. Come on.
But this? This tourist trap for the gullible? Stiles is calling bullshit. Shit-to-the-bull.
"Dude, they’ve done tests and everything," Scott insists, holding out his palms. "I thought you of all people would appreciate a real-live fairytale!"
"I would if it was real,” Stiles retorts, turning to look at the display once again. He does Instagram a photo, because, well. It’s the bro-trip. The Pre-College Countdown. He’s going to document everything he can, even Scott’s naivety. Plus, the wax-dude’s pretty easy on the eyes; well-built and delicately featured with a fan of inky-dark lashes caressing his cheekbones, but a strong, angular jaw and a dusting of stubble. If Stiles met him in a bar, he’d totally be down.
The Sleeping Beau of La Iglesia has all the markings of a tourist scam, though. With literally nothing around the town save for some old architecture and sand and maybe some unmarked cartel graves and more sand, there had to be something to draw the crowds here in droves, since the history buffs wouldn’t be paying the bills on their own. A hot fake-dude taking a nap in the ruins of an old church connected to a gift shop was reason enough.
He’s not saying there’s nothing to it.. just. Alright, maybe after the earthquake there actually had been a guy forgotten and undiscovered amidst the rubble for a full two weeks, And maybe he’d miraculously survived the heat and lack of oxygen and food and water. Hell, maybe he was some kind of magical creature, just like Lydia - but to believe this is him? Nope.
Stiles suspects the real Beau is, at best, a coma victim in one of the nearby hospitals. The media buzz surrounding the discovery was enough fuel to encourage the scam. Some shady people cashed in on his likeness after a photo showed up online. Bam. Instant revenue.
Stiles zooms in on the picture. The ‘guy’ is behind a fence and lit by dim construction-lights, so he can’t get as good a look as he would maybe want to, but there has to be something in the image to give away the fraud. 
"If it’s real, and alive, why is he still here?" he asks, noticing for the first time, the plaque fixed to the wall beside the exhibit. "Shouldn’t they have, I don’t know, tried to get him some medical attention? It’s been five years.”
Scott folds his arms. “Because of the forcefield,” he says, like it’s obvious.
"The forcefield," Stiles parrots flatly. "Of course."
"Dude, it says it all on the little info-thing," he says, pointing to the plaque.
"Yes, but it’s all in Spanish? Which I… didn’t take?"
Scott sighs, still clearly bitchfacing about Stiles calling bullshit on his awesome outing. “It says: 'Here rests The Sleeping Beau of La Iglesia. He was discovered some weeks after the Great Quake of 09, which leveled the town and exposed the late Aztec architecture which had been concealed by modernization. 
The Beau’s identity is unknown, but medical tests show him to be alive and in  - apparent - good health. It is unclear why he sleeps, but a legend surrounds this place; that time is relative, and those who are lost can find peace, until it is their hour to be found again. Ancient runes surround his resting place, keeping him safe from interference until his time for slumber has passed.
What will the Beau wake for? Destiny? An end to suffering? True Love? The secret is his own.”
Scott ends the reading with a mystical look in his eye. Stiles raises a brow.
"The mystical forcefield is glass. I’m pretty sure there’s a smudge on it."
"Dude, where’s your sense of wonder?"
"Back home in BH where actual supernatural shit happens on the regular," he says, squinting. "Seriously. This is crap. They don’t even get many tourists out here because everyone knows it." Scott looks scandalised, and skeptical. "Seriously, I’ll prove it to you."
He throws a leg over the fence after a cursory glance around, and Scott rushes forward. “Stiles!” he hisses. “What the hell!?”
"It’s fine -the guard out front looked more bored than I am," he throws back, picking his way across the dirt floor. It’s weird, but up close, he can’t see any glass - just this odd, ripple effect; like the sun on asphalt in Summer. Whatever. He’s come this far.
"Alright, Ken Doll," he tells the Beau, "How’d they make you look so real?" Seriously - Stiles has a photo of three-year-old him posing with a waxwork of Arnold Schwarzenegger in which he’s screaming in abject terror. They are never this lifelike.
He steps forward, cocking his head, and hesitates at the sharp intake of breath from behind. “Dude, chill.”
"Stiles - the runes—"
He realises what Scott’s talking about as soon as he’s said it. There’s a spiral of nonsense-looking runes leading into the part of the stone removed to display the Beau - and they’re glowing, a vibrant, azure blue.
"Whoa," Stiles breathes. He’s got to hand it to these guys - they don’t half-ass their scam. Of course Stiles isn’t the first skeptic to decide on a closer look. “What is this, a hidden trigger in the floor?”
"Stiles, I don’t think you should be messing with this—"
He tunes Scott out, furrowing his brow. It’s strange, like the moment the runes were ‘activated’, he’s been overcome by this… compulsion.
"Seriously, man, don’t—"
Touch him. Touch him so he’s real, a voice seems to say - and Stiles blinks, shaking his head. No - he’s fake. Stiles is touching this thing to prove to Scott that this whole thing is—
Have to touch.
"I.. Scott? It’s weird, it’s like I… I just have to…”
He’s reaching out as he speaks; reaching into the heat-ripple, warmth travelling up his arm, over his shoulder, settling behind his ribs. Stiles takes a breath - dust and dirt and, oddly, something familiar; homely - like an old comforter or the scent of his mom’s perfume - but… not.
He lets out the breath and reaches past the coil of beautiful, purple blooms for skin - warm skin. He can feel the heat radiating off that skin, feel the gentle ghost of the hair at his fingertips.
Scott is moving, he’s telling him something, insisting, but all Stiles can focus on is this - this man, this person behind the wall, and he has to touch him, will die if he doesn’t, can’t form a coherent thought about anything except—
There’s a crack as Stiles’ hand makes contact. A crack, a gasp a glow, and then green.
Green eyes.
Green eyes open.
Green eyes looking at Stiles.
No, not green - blue-hazel-teal… looking.
The Beau is looking at Stiles. He’s awake and his mouth is opening and his eyes are wide with awe, and Stiles feels that warmth again, that bloom in his chest, but it’s coming right from those eyes, boring into him, peering right at his very soul and offering his own in return.
It’s terrifying.
But it isn’t.
Everything is silent, save for the fall of rock, as the wall encasing the man breaks away, piece by piece, and Scott’s laboured breathing, three feet back, because he can’t pass the forcefield.
Because he isn’t meant to. Stiles was meant to.
In his heart, looking at this man, he knows it. Only Stiles was meant to.
Because—
"You found me," the Beau says, and promptly collapses, boneless, into Stiles’ arms.

howlnatural:

"It’s made of wax."

Scott makes a face like someone just told him the truth about Santa Claus - Stiles would know, since he accidentally stole that piece of Scott’s childhood and has had to endure the heartbreaking, wistful sighs every Christmas Eve since. How had anyone made it to age thirteen in Beacon Hills, Nemeton Weirdness Central, without finding out that Jolly Old St Nick was actually a frost demon who fed on the souls of children by luring them in with toys before his permanent imprisonment centuries back? Stiles’ attic was haunted by a sea captain thanks to the re-used beams in the roof, and they’d literally had to evict a vengeful family of tree sprites out of their old hangout spot last month. Come on.

But this? This tourist trap for the gullible? Stiles is calling bullshit. Shit-to-the-bull.

"Dude, they’ve done tests and everything," Scott insists, holding out his palms. "I thought you of all people would appreciate a real-live fairytale!"

"I would if it was real,” Stiles retorts, turning to look at the display once again. He does Instagram a photo, because, well. It’s the bro-trip. The Pre-College Countdown. He’s going to document everything he can, even Scott’s naivety. Plus, the wax-dude’s pretty easy on the eyes; well-built and delicately featured with a fan of inky-dark lashes caressing his cheekbones, but a strong, angular jaw and a dusting of stubble. If Stiles met him in a bar, he’d totally be down.

The Sleeping Beau of La Iglesia has all the markings of a tourist scam, though. With literally nothing around the town save for some old architecture and sand and maybe some unmarked cartel graves and more sand, there had to be something to draw the crowds here in droves, since the history buffs wouldn’t be paying the bills on their own. A hot fake-dude taking a nap in the ruins of an old church connected to a gift shop was reason enough.

He’s not saying there’s nothing to it.. just. Alright, maybe after the earthquake there actually had been a guy forgotten and undiscovered amidst the rubble for a full two weeks, And maybe he’d miraculously survived the heat and lack of oxygen and food and water. Hell, maybe he was some kind of magical creature, just like Lydia - but to believe this is him? Nope.

Stiles suspects the real Beau is, at best, a coma victim in one of the nearby hospitals. The media buzz surrounding the discovery was enough fuel to encourage the scam. Some shady people cashed in on his likeness after a photo showed up online. Bam. Instant revenue.

Stiles zooms in on the picture. The ‘guy’ is behind a fence and lit by dim construction-lights, so he can’t get as good a look as he would maybe want to, but there has to be something in the image to give away the fraud. 

"If it’s real, and alive, why is he still here?" he asks, noticing for the first time, the plaque fixed to the wall beside the exhibit. "Shouldn’t they have, I don’t know, tried to get him some medical attention? It’s been five years.”

Scott folds his arms. “Because of the forcefield,” he says, like it’s obvious.

"The forcefield," Stiles parrots flatly. "Of course."

"Dude, it says it all on the little info-thing," he says, pointing to the plaque.

"Yes, but it’s all in Spanish? Which I… didn’t take?"

Scott sighs, still clearly bitchfacing about Stiles calling bullshit on his awesome outing. “It says: 'Here rests The Sleeping Beau of La Iglesia. He was discovered some weeks after the Great Quake of 09, which leveled the town and exposed the late Aztec architecture which had been concealed by modernization.

The Beau’s identity is unknown, but medical tests show him to be alive and in  - apparent - good health. It is unclear why he sleeps, but a legend surrounds this place; that time is relative, and those who are lost can find peace, until it is their hour to be found again. Ancient runes surround his resting place, keeping him safe from interference until his time for slumber has passed.

What will the Beau wake for? Destiny? An end to suffering? True Love? The secret is his own.

Scott ends the reading with a mystical look in his eye. Stiles raises a brow.

"The mystical forcefield is glass. I’m pretty sure there’s a smudge on it."

"Dude, where’s your sense of wonder?"

"Back home in BH where actual supernatural shit happens on the regular," he says, squinting. "Seriously. This is crap. They don’t even get many tourists out here because everyone knows it." Scott looks scandalised, and skeptical. "Seriously, I’ll prove it to you."

He throws a leg over the fence after a cursory glance around, and Scott rushes forward. “Stiles!” he hisses. “What the hell!?”

"It’s fine -the guard out front looked more bored than I am," he throws back, picking his way across the dirt floor. It’s weird, but up close, he can’t see any glass - just this odd, ripple effect; like the sun on asphalt in Summer. Whatever. He’s come this far.

"Alright, Ken Doll," he tells the Beau, "How’d they make you look so real?" Seriously - Stiles has a photo of three-year-old him posing with a waxwork of Arnold Schwarzenegger in which he’s screaming in abject terror. They are never this lifelike.

He steps forward, cocking his head, and hesitates at the sharp intake of breath from behind. “Dude, chill.

"Stiles - the runes—"

He realises what Scott’s talking about as soon as he’s said it. There’s a spiral of nonsense-looking runes leading into the part of the stone removed to display the Beau - and they’re glowing, a vibrant, azure blue.

"Whoa," Stiles breathes. He’s got to hand it to these guys - they don’t half-ass their scam. Of course Stiles isn’t the first skeptic to decide on a closer look. “What is this, a hidden trigger in the floor?”

"Stiles, I don’t think you should be messing with this—"

He tunes Scott out, furrowing his brow. It’s strange, like the moment the runes were ‘activated’, he’s been overcome by this… compulsion.

"Seriously, man, don’t—"

Touch him. Touch him so he’s real, a voice seems to say - and Stiles blinks, shaking his head. No - he’s fake. Stiles is touching this thing to prove to Scott that this whole thing is—

Have to touch.

"I.. Scott? It’s weird, it’s like I… I just have to…”

He’s reaching out as he speaks; reaching into the heat-ripple, warmth travelling up his arm, over his shoulder, settling behind his ribs. Stiles takes a breath - dust and dirt and, oddly, something familiar; homely - like an old comforter or the scent of his mom’s perfume - but… not.

He lets out the breath and reaches past the coil of beautiful, purple blooms for skin - warm skin. He can feel the heat radiating off that skin, feel the gentle ghost of the hair at his fingertips.

Scott is moving, he’s telling him something, insisting, but all Stiles can focus on is this - this man, this person behind the wall, and he has to touch him, will die if he doesn’t, can’t form a coherent thought about anything except—

There’s a crack as Stiles’ hand makes contact. A crack, a gasp a glow, and then green.

Green eyes.

Green eyes open.

Green eyes looking at Stiles.

No, not green - blue-hazel-teal… looking.

The Beau is looking at Stiles. He’s awake and his mouth is opening and his eyes are wide with awe, and Stiles feels that warmth again, that bloom in his chest, but it’s coming right from those eyes, boring into him, peering right at his very soul and offering his own in return.

It’s terrifying.

But it isn’t.

Everything is silent, save for the fall of rock, as the wall encasing the man breaks away, piece by piece, and Scott’s laboured breathing, three feet back, because he can’t pass the forcefield.

Because he isn’t meant to. Stiles was meant to.

In his heart, looking at this man, he knows it. Only Stiles was meant to.

Because—

"You found me," the Beau says, and promptly collapses, boneless, into Stiles’ arms.

(Source: wolfspirals, via eeames)

Dear Neighbor

happysterekthoughts:

Based on this post

Stiles remembers distinctly the day someone finally moved into the condo next door to his.

Mainly because he’d just come out of a weekend long binge following the absolute worst breakup of his life and hadn’t showered for the better part of three days. He smelled like Cheetos, dressed in paint stained sweats and a moth-bitten t-shirt that was thin from overuse. His eyes were all bloodshot and so purple underneath that it probably looked like he’d had his nose broken. It wasn’t even from crying. It was from staring at his computer screen in the dark for twenty-four hours straight.

Also, the dude moving in was hot like burning.

When Stiles peeked out through the dusty, plastic blinds, the new guy was standing cross-armed, biceps rounding and flexing against the seam of his sleeves, as he talked to one of the movers. He scratched at his not-quite-beard in a way that was probably illegal in some states.

In a grand display of his own maturity, Stiles hid behind the couch for the remainder of the afternoon with only a bowl full of Trix cereal in his hands and his dog, Bear, trying to snuffle awkwardly into his lap.

Despite being a year old Great Dane whose size fully lived up to his name.

The next day, Stiles started calling his neighbor “Greenpeace” after seeing him haul groceries, all bagged up in bright blue, reusable totes, into the hidden confines of his new home. Stiles isn’t sure when being environmentally conscientious became so adorably attractive, but…here he is.

It’s been a month and Stiles has yet to introduce himself outside of a polite little wave on the rare occasion that the two of them are outside at the same time. Stiles always initiates. Greenpeace waves back, stiff but polite, and Stiles kind of figures that’s just his way. He seems sort of tight around the shoulders, stretched taut like elastic.

Honestly, he looks like he could use a good massage, and that is a thought Stiles avoids entertaining until he’s  alone in his room with only his own hand and a lovely down-comforter to keep him warm.

The real victim here, though, is Bear. Poor Bear who is immediately love struck. Practically sick with it really.

Over Greenpeace’s cat.

The little Persian sits on the windowsill every morning when Stiles walks his dog. Its squished, angry face stares out impassively at the Dane’s wet eyes and lolling tongue. Whether or not Greenpeace is on the treadmill holds no bearing over how long Stiles lets Bear stare longingly through the pane of glass and green, iron rails.

Except, yeah it does. 

He doesn’t…he doesn’t mean to to spy exactly. It’s just that he’s the son of the Sheriff, and he can’t help but observe a few things. Like that Greenpeace still hasn’t unpacked all his belongings, as though maybe he’s dragging his feet. 

And then there’s what looks like a framed family photo on the side table by the couch. It appears out of the blue one day and is laying picture-side down the next. 

And despite how he looks, Greenpeace isn’t exactly a Casanova, but Stiles does see a one-night-stand leave about a month after the move-in. The person who sneaked into a cab at three in the morning with ruffled hair and shirt buttons askew was definitely not a woman. So that’s on the table. 

And there’s a stack of intellectual books that go from piled on the floor behind the couch to neatly arranged on selves against the wall in a matter of weeks. Not all of them are in English, that much Stiles is certain of. 

Clearly, this is Stiles’ soul mate. He feels Bear’s pain, he really does. 

*

"Dad," Stiles whines pitifully into his phone’s receiver. "You promised no more Chinese. Melissa said she’d make you meals and everything. Do you realize how much I had to bribe her for that?”

"As an officer of the law," his father responds loftily, "I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear the word ‘bribe’ being spoken."

"Don’t play that game with me, Pops. I know your tricks. Don’t think I can be so easily distracted."

At the end of his leash, Bear lets out a long, distraught whimper. It’s unusual given that they’re in their regular spot in front of Greenpeace’s window. At this point, his dog normally proceeds to sit in silent adoration as he stares into the Persian’s half-lidded, amber eyes. 

Stiles’ dad continues talking in his ear, voice a low drawl as he retorts with what is, in all likelihood, a mortifying reminder of something his son did in his teenage years. Ironically though, Stiles is completely distracted by the object of Bear’s distress.

A neat little row of various leafy, potted plants is lined up against the base of the sill.

Right where the love of Bear’s life usually bathes in the sun. 

Read More

(Source: deputyeyebrows)

saucefactory:

saradestellar:

akafoxxcub:

 (via miss-pamela)

tatum played it like a love story;  he did!;  i watched an interview once and he was all blushy like;  ye they in love; (via queermccoy)

This entire movie was a ridiculous love-song. Allow me to take this opportunity to link to my favorite Marcus/Esca novels and novellas:

These were taken from my multi-fandom novel-length recs. Enjoy! :)

(Source: mistercaffrey, via agentotter)

jerakeenc:

(welcome to my self-indulgence. excuse the mess.)
0
Being an only child and heir to the throne, Stiles had always known he may not have the luxury of marrying for love. When he’d realized he was an omega to boot, things had taken an even more uncomfortable turn for him.
Omegas are rare. An omega as the heir apparent is almost unheard of.
Which is why there is no wiggle room when it comes to the tournament.
"It’s tradition," his father says. "Any alpha, be they royal, noble, or commoner, may compete for your hand in marriage. It brings people together. After three years of droughts our people need something to celebrate."
Stiles makes a face. “Give the winner another prize then. I don’t want to marry some brute just because he won a couple of stupid fights.”
His father is not amused. “You don’t have to marry any of the winners. You can announce that you’re not ready for marriage. It’s within your rights. You will, however, respect the alphas and watch their games, or so help me god Stiles, I will eat all the bacon in this kingdom.”
"You wouldn’t." Stiles glares at him.
"Just watch me," his father says.
Read More

jerakeenc:

(welcome to my self-indulgence. excuse the mess.)

0

Being an only child and heir to the throne, Stiles had always known he may not have the luxury of marrying for love. When he’d realized he was an omega to boot, things had taken an even more uncomfortable turn for him.

Omegas are rare. An omega as the heir apparent is almost unheard of.

Which is why there is no wiggle room when it comes to the tournament.

"It’s tradition," his father says. "Any alpha, be they royal, noble, or commoner, may compete for your hand in marriage. It brings people together. After three years of droughts our people need something to celebrate."

Stiles makes a face. “Give the winner another prize then. I don’t want to marry some brute just because he won a couple of stupid fights.”

His father is not amused. “You don’t have to marry any of the winners. You can announce that you’re not ready for marriage. It’s within your rights. You will, however, respect the alphas and watch their games, or so help me god Stiles, I will eat all the bacon in this kingdom.”

"You wouldn’t." Stiles glares at him.

"Just watch me," his father says.

Read More

ambersnake asks:

You know those videos of animals that have been kept in captivity all their lives being released and finally getting to run around/swim/fly? I want a Teen Wolf fic like that. Stiles frees Derek from a lifetime in a cage, and for the first time Derek gets to shift at will, or speak, or integrate into a proper pack.

machtaholic:

bleep0bleep:

drunktuesdaze:

jerakeenc:

Derek frolicking in the grass like a puppy? HELL YES.

I’M OBSESSED WITH HOW HORRIBLE THIS IS.  

IMAGINE IF YOU WILL a Derek Hale who was captured by the hunters who burned his family, who was sold to a weird strain of emissaries, looking to test new strains of wolfsbane.  He’s been kept underground for years in a sunless, windowless cell, where he’s been held down and hurt by impersonal, sterile hands.  

When Peter bites Scott, maybe he and Stiles figure most of it out on their own, maybe they follow the tracks and they find Derek, because maybe they think Derek’s their best chance to go up against Peter.  

But they don’t expect what they find, a Derek who hasn’t seen the sun, who has to be tugged out into the sunshine, who walks carefully, like he doesn’t trust the ground underneath them.  Maybe Stiles takes as a personal challenge, after Peter is dealt with and the world goes back to normal, to help integrate Derek, to show him the good things in life like sunshine and curly fries.

The Jeep rolls to a stop; they’re in a secluded clearing in the preserve, dappled sunlight flickering into the green grass swaying in the wind. “Why isn’t he getting out of the car?” Scott hisses to Stiles.

The passenger door is open, and Derek is eyeing them and the surroundings hesitantly. 

"Just give him a minute," Stiles whispers. 

Stiles tugs Scott into a sitting position on the grass, and they sit quietly, trying to pretend they aren’t extremely invested in what’s happening a few feet away from them. 

It takes an age, but finally when it looks like Scott and Stiles aren’t looking, Derek steps out of the Jeep. He’s still barefoot; they haven’t had time to find shoes since the rescue. His foot hovers over the grass for a second, and then Derek sets his feet down, one at a time.

His eyes close, and the wind stirs his hair a little, inhaling deeply the scent of the forest, arms spreading out to feel the sunlight on his skin.

A wave of contentment surges through Stiles as he watches Derek drop to the ground, rubbing his cheek against the grass, a delighted smile breaking onto his face for the first time since they’ve met him.

It’s difficult to reconcile the snarling werewolf they first encountered in that cage with the man now currently rolling around happily in the grass.

It’s nice, Stiles thinks. Happy is a good look for him.  

Derek wasn’t happy.  His rescuers had forced him into a large bathtub and were pouring bucket after bucket of hot water over him.  He growled and tried to get out of the tub but the other werewolf, he’d heard the one with the long eyelashes call him ‘Scott’, kept him in the tub.

"You are a mess, Derek," Scott said.  "So you need to sit here and let us help."

Derek growled again and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Are you seriously pouting?" the other one said.

"Stiles, don’t aggravate him," Scott muttered.

"Oh please," Stiles said.  He reached for the shampoo and poured some in his hands before attacking Derek’s long, matted hair.  "This needs some serious work."  He began scrubbing hard, trying to work out the tangles.

Derek winced at first but then … then Stiles’ long fingers began massaging, working gently across his scalp.  He started to hum, which quickly turned into a purr.  It felt … nice.  And nice was something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

"Um … just lean your head back," Scott said quietly, helping Derek so that Stiles could rinse the shampoo from Derek’s hair.  The rest of the bath went better, although Derek flinched a bit when then trimmed and washed his beard, and he got a little embarrassed when Scott and Stiles had to help wash his body.

Drying off was a bit of an ordeal and the sweats he tugged on were a bit small, but they were soft and smelled like detergent and a hint of peppermint, which helped to calm him down a bit.  The purring continued when he felt Stiles gently combing through his hair, tying it back in a braid.  

"All right, big guy just come here and you can -"  Derek walked right past what he assumed was supposed to be his room and went right for the room that smelled so good.  He crawled onto the bed and buried his face in the pillows, purring happily.

"Well shit."  Derek heard Stiles curse.  A few minutes later he felt the bed dip on either side of him and he purred happily as the scent of home wrapped around him.

halekingsourwolf:

Parrish loves working with Sheriff Stilinski. He’s an amazing mentor, a great man, and Parrish trusts him with his life (and has tested that trust on more than one occasion). But there are still some things he knows he shouldn’t share.

Like the fact that the Sheriff’s teenage son is currently developing strong feelings for the brooding, “wanted for murder on multiple occasions” werewolf six years his senior. Like the fact that they’re going to get together officially within the next six months, are going to get married (“mated, Stiles”) four years after that, and have a son (biologically Stiles’) who will want nothing more than to follow in his grandfather’s footsteps in the police department.

…Like the fact that time travel is absolutely real, and Parrish Stilinski-Hale might have made use of it for the opportunity to learn from his grandfather in the days before the heart attack claimed him.

There are some things the Sheriff really doesn’t need to know.

(via bleep0bleep)

hellasterek:

 (via felicitysmock)

(Source: stilestates, via obrojobs)